


The Best Never Planned

by rudigersmooch



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alpha Jaskier | Dandelion, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, First Time, Jealousy, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:49:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24753475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudigersmooch/pseuds/rudigersmooch
Summary: After knowing Geralt for over a decade, Jaskier had been sure there were no more surprises in his future.(Or, where Jaskier finds out Geralt is an omega about five seconds after telling him he smells like a prostitute, and the situation can only improve from there.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 58
Kudos: 988
Collections: Heat Fic Summer 2020





	The Best Never Planned

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Val_Creative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/gifts).



> Hello recip! Thanks for the fun request - I hope you enjoy this treat! :)

It had been three months since Jaskier had last seen Geralt, and while they hadn’t made any particular plans to meet in the future, there was something utterly unsurprising about walking into the lone tavern in a random town and seeing a familiar set of wide shoulders seated at a table in the back. Geralt seemed to take great satisfaction in showing up when Jaskier least expected him, but today of all days—after a long, lonely walk with no company but his own voice and lyrics that weren’t coming out right—Jaskier was delighted to have their roles reversed, so delighted that he had to bite down on a bubbly, boisterous greeting. Sneaking up on a witcher was no easy task, but Jaskier was light on his feet; the possibility that he might succeed at this even once was enough to make him grin, no matter how ridiculous he might’ve looked while stepping so carefully across a dirty tavern floor.

When Jaskier was only a few yards away, he caught an unexpected smell on the stale air, and his grin stretched across his cheeks. Oh, this was _perfect._

“I see _someone_ has been keeping busy,” Jaskier greeted as he threw himself in the seat across from Geralt. The poor wooden chair creaked ominously, but Jaskier was too focused on Geralt to care.

Geralt neither startled nor looked up from his meal; the lack of reaction to Jaskier’s sudden presence was disappointing, but the feeling was quickly smothered by breathing in more of that smell. It was fresh, light, altogether mouth-watering, and Geralt was absolutely _drenched_ in it; Jaskier had to hand it to whatever brothel he’d come from, because faux omega scents weren’t usually so lingering, not without also becoming unpleasantly pungent as time passed. Geralt must’ve paid good money for the woman who’d rubbed herself all over him while smelling like perfect omega, and Jaskier assumed that meant monsters and adventures, and lots of them.

“No more than usual,” Geralt answered as he tore off a strip of bread and dipped it in his stew. The stew was meaty, the bread fresh and fragrant from herbs; Geralt must’ve had a job here, then, if he was getting fine food from the tavern itself instead of camping outside of town with whatever he could catch.

Jaskier was briefly distracted by watching him eat, but if asked, he planned to blame it on the smell—prime omega confusing his alpha instincts and such. Certainly nothing to do with watching Geralt bite and savor things, looking as happy as Jaskier had ever seen him.

Which reminded him.

“Oh, come on,” he said, his tone wheedling. “I’m dying for a new story, Geralt. Your public is tiring of the same old tales.”

“Then sing them in reverse—they’ll sound better that way.”

“Oh, ha ha,” Jaskier said, but he was a little stung. Geralt didn’t always like being the subject of legendary ballads, but that was no reason to get _testy_ about it. “And to think I thought you’d be a little more cooperative and a bit less grumpy, considering,” he said, his eyes sweeping quickly over Geralt. He _did_ seem relaxed; it gave Jaskier a curious ache, the sort he’d gotten used to ignoring over the years. “You should ask for your money back.”

“My money?”

“From whatever prostitute you just saw.” Jaskier waved a dismissive hand. “I can smell it from across the tavern, you know. Her perfume.” He cleared his throat and looked away, because Jaskier’s ability to feign nonchalance didn’t always hold up to looking Geralt in the eyes, and it was worse than usual right now; that smell, on Geralt, was _killing_ him. “I’m surprised you didn’t wash it off—it can’t be good for business to smell so…ready.”

Geralt said nothing, and when Jaskier finally looked back at him, Geralt had an expression on his face like he’d just bitten down on a hunk of gristle.

The omega smell around them went sharply sour, displeased and spoiled and _not_ stagnant and perfumed at all, and Jaskier’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head.

Of all the times to be wrong.

“You’re a—” His voice cracked embarrassingly, and he tried again. “I mean, _you’re_ —”

“Leaving tomorrow,” Geralt said, and his tone dared Jaskier to argue with the subject change. “For Aedirn. If you’re coming, be ready by dawn.”

It was as close to an invitation for traveling together as Jaskier had ever heard, a peace offering to show that Geralt wasn’t actually going to murder him for this, and he grabbed at it with both hands. He felt like a fool, nodding rapidly and still intermittently gaping like a fish, but Geralt thankfully didn’t say anything else before he pushed his bowl aside and stormed off, his meal barely half finished.

Fuck. Geralt had been feeling _happy_ , and then Jaskier had told him his omega scent made him smell like a whore.

There were times Jaskier honestly wondered how he’d survived in this world as long as he had.  
  


* * *

  
The small possibility that Geralt might leave without him meant that Jaskier didn’t sleep well that night, and so he spent the better part of that first day on the road nursing an aching head. Naturally, Jaskier’s usual scintillating conversation fell flat and then fell into silence, and Geralt—who was never interested in conversation for conversation’s sake—made no attempt to fill the void. It should’ve made their journey refreshing, peaceful even, but if there was one thing Jaskier had learned over the years, it was that conversation was sometimes his only defense against his own thoughts.

Frankly, Jaskier couldn’t stop thinking, headache or no, when the topic of his thoughts was riding a horse not more than an arm’s length away.

The thing was, for the first few years he’d known him, Jaskier had thought Geralt was an _alpha_. It was an impression based largely on their first days together, when they’d been captured by elves and Geralt had been immediately protective of someone he barely knew and liked even less; Jaskier hadn’t known any better and he certainly hadn’t known Geralt, and so he’d seen no answer for the behavior except to assume that it was a natural protective instinct as alpha as they came. The experience had provided fertile ground for several (dozen) fantasies where Jaskier found a way to pay Geralt back with a liberal application of sex, just one alpha helping another, and the thoughts had kept him sufficiently warm for the many months it took for Geralt to relax around him even slightly. By the time he realized Geralt _couldn’t_ be an alpha—he didn’t smell like an alpha or anything really, he didn’t rut, he had no territory, he reacted to typical alpha posturing with amusement and exasperation instead of returned aggression—Jaskier’s fantasies had taken a striking turn into the romantic, and his revised conclusion that Geralt was a beta barely even slowed him down. That Geralt’s tastes seemed to run exclusively to beta women was a slightly larger hitch, but manageable; after five years, Jaskier accepted the inevitability of his flirtatious volleys falling on deaf ears, and he tried not to take it personally. Betas didn’t have much interest in alphas or omegas for the most part, and witchers had less interest in practically everyone—probably it was just smart to have all witchers be betas rather than making them out of people who would eventually have other instincts to fight.

The reality—that Geralt was an omega, actually, and that Jaskier had somehow just not noticed for _over a decade_ —was slightly mind-breaking. Or at least that was Jaskier’s excuse for why, after staying mostly silent all day, he finally lost the battle with himself when they set camp for the night. The second he sat next to the fire, lute in hand to pluck idly through the evening, the words just burst out of him.

“But how does it _work_?”

Geralt didn’t ask him to clarify, and he barely glanced up from the pair of rabbits he was busily skinning; apparently Jaskier had been embarrassingly obvious about where his mind had been over the past ten or so hours.

“Mostly the same as it does for humans, I’d imagine,” Geralt said.

 _But I can’t smell you,_ Jaskier thought, although he bit his lip hard to keep the observation to himself. Admitting that he’d been searching for that soft omega scent underneath the smell of horse and leather and dust felt lecherous even to him, even if the feeling hadn’t stopped him from trying in the first place. He couldn’t help it; he just wanted to be sure he remembered it correctly, that he had the full measure of it before he put it to the back of his mind.

“So, you just go into the closest town and find an alpha whenever you…need one?” 

The idea didn’t sit right with Jaskier for more reasons than just the jealousy churning in his gut. Alphas weren’t rare, but they also weren’t usually prostitutes; the alternative of Geralt just walking into a tavern while he was brimming with heat and asking some stranger for help when he was vulnerable didn’t sound like Geralt at all. Omega in need or not, _reckless_ and _stupid_ just weren’t his style.

“Not always.”

“Well, that sounds like torture,” Jaskier muttered. He hated the idea of Geralt suffering alone even more than he hated the idea of Geralt fucking some random alpha who wouldn’t even appreciate the experience, but he was certain that trying to say that would only end the same way the previous night had. It would sound unconvincing at best, lovesick at worst.

Geralt sighed and set aside his knife and his rabbit, then looked up with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Jaskier. Come here.”

“W-what? Why?” Jaskier asked, though he didn’t wait for an answer before getting to his feet and walking around their fire. When he was close enough, Geralt grabbed his wrist and pulled him down…to sit next to him, that was all, and Jaskier told himself that he wasn’t disappointed, because he’d expected nothing else.

“Take a breath,” Geralt said, which seemed odd until Jaskier did.

Underneath the myriad of smells around them—fresh blood, burning wood, leafy trees, Roach, leather, Jaskier’s own embarrassing lust—Jaskier smelled nothing. Even close as they were, sitting together pressed nearly thigh-to-thigh, there was not so much as a hint of omega on the air. It had been snuffed out cleaner than a candle, and if Jaskier hadn’t made such a fool of himself the night before and forced the issue into conversation, he would’ve thought he’d imagined it entirely.

“A witcher trick?” he asked quietly, and he received a gentle shove for his trouble. Or gentle for Geralt, anyway, which was still forceful enough to unbalance Jaskier from his seat and move him several inches away.

Afterward, Geralt went back to the rabbit, and it was clear he considered the conversation over and done.

Jaskier wished it was that simple for him, but uncharacteristically, he let the matter drop. It wasn’t any of his business if Geralt had secrets, and it certainly wasn’t his business how Geralt handled his heats, if he even had them—not unless he made it Jaskier’s business, anyway.

The likelihood of that was depressingly low, but Jaskier forced himself to swallow his disappointment and put it aside, if only to keep his own sanity.  


* * *

  
It was some months later before the subject came up again, though perhaps _come up_ was too subtle a description for what transpired. One minute they were walking along, on their way out of a town that had been happy to see them go, and the next minute Jaskier was stumbling and Geralt was hunching over his saddle like he was in pain. The smell of omega and _heat_ was pleasant to the part of Jaskier that registered it first, but the suddenness of it felt like an attack, and he didn’t need to hear Geralt’s softly uttered “fuck” to know that he wasn’t the only one surprised. 

In Jaskier’s experience, surprising Geralt was neither an easy thing nor a good sign, and so he was fully in favor when they turned around and went back to the inn that had nearly been destroyed during Geralt’s hunt for the town’s ghoul. Once there, they stabled Roach and went inside, Jaskier stumbling a little from the pulse of pheromones around them while Geralt clenched his fists and his jaw but otherwise moved as easily as he ever did.

The expected sour look on the innkeeper’s face didn’t change even when they stood barely a foot away, reeking of heat and lust, and Jaskier had never been more grateful for a beta’s dulled sense of smell in his life.

“One room,” the inn keeper asked reluctantly, clearly debating the wisdom of allowing them to stay at all, “or two?”

“Two,” Geralt grunted before Jaskier could even think to ask. “Upstairs. For four nights.”

Jaskier nodded rapidly in agreement even while a hollow feeling settled in his stomach. It was no surprise that Geralt wanted his own space to deal with this, but it hurt, just a little, that he didn’t consider asking Jaskier for help even when he was literally right next to him. That Geralt was apparently going to go looking for some other alpha to satisfy him while smelling like the best thing in the world made Jaskier want to throw himself out a window, and he could only be grateful when they went upstairs and at least that temptation was removed. Their rooms were right next to each other, sharing a wall that was no doubt thin; Jaskier wouldn’t be going into his room that night if somebody paid him to, not even to avail himself of the window, because there was simply no way he was going to spend a single minute listening to Geralt being fucked in the next room over.

Jaskier tossed his few belongings inside his room without looking, made an excuse that he was certain sounded like a nonsensical jumble of words, and then left as quickly as his feet could carry him. There was a tavern down the street, and though Jaskier didn’t relish the idea of spending his hard-earned coins on a night of watery ale and terrible music, he didn’t see what other options he had. If he was lucky, possibly he could even convince someone to take him home; his luck would’ve been better if he’d brought his lute with him, of course, but he didn’t trust himself not to descend into weepy ballads at the moment, and nobody wanted that.

The folly of his plan struck him when he was halfway through his first drink. He’d received a few interested looks since he’d sat down, but they’d shifted to confusion when the alphas in question realized that the heat smell lingering on his clothes wasn’t his. Nobody seemed to have recognized him as “that bard who travels with the White Wolf,” or if they had, nobody had made the connection to the heat smell’s origin; that reprieve would end as soon as Geralt himself showed up, because where else would he go in this small town to look for a willing alpha? Jaskier had just sentenced himself to having to _watch_ people throw themselves at his horribly beautiful friend, and there wasn’t enough ale in the world.

He braced for it all the same, though he didn’t expect it to help.

One hour of waiting stretched into two, but before those two hours could become three, Jaskier was hit by a realization as clear as any prophecy: Geralt _wasn’t_ coming to the tavern. Geralt would know perfectly well how people would react to the smell of omega in deep heat, even if the prejudice against witchers might make them want to stay away—there was no way Geralt would approach someone while thinking they were touching him against their will, and he _certainly_ wouldn’t come trailing after Jaskier, not when Jaskier had bolted from the inn like he had a monster at his heels.

Geralt was spending his heat alone.

Jaskier all but shot up from his chair in his hurry to rush back to the inn, feeling like he was being pulled this way and that like a child’s toy. He still had no intention of staying, not if Geralt didn’t want him there, but he had to at least make sure Geralt had what he needed. It would take minutes at best; it was the simple, friendly thing to do.

Jaskier didn’t feel very much like a friend as he made his way back up the inn’s staircase; he felt like an interloper, sure to be tossed out on his ass as soon as he provided the opportunity, and the feeling stayed with him until he came to a stop outside of Geralt’s door. Jaskier took a deep breath and raised his hand to knock, but his fist froze before it could connect. He couldn’t hear anything inside, and the light under the door was the soft glow of a fire reduced for the night—Geralt might’ve been asleep. Omegas did that, sometimes, when they didn’t want to deal with the itchy feeling of a heat nearing its desperate peak, before sex was a necessity and sleep became scarce; if Geralt could handle it that way, that was probably his preference.

Jaskier had nearly convinced himself to turn around and come back in the morning when the door swung inward and a hand yanked him inside by his shirt. The door was closed again by bodily pushing him against it, and any chance of moving afterward was ruined by Geralt’s hands slapping against the wood on either side of his head. 

Geralt looked frustrated in every sense of the word. He also smelled just as good as Jaskier had tried not to remember, and he’d stripped off his armor and boots and medallion at some point, leaving him in only his shirt and trousers and with his hair loose and wild around his neck—Jaskier tried not to be distracted.

“Were you going to stand outside all night?”

“No! Of course not.” The words came out in a defensive rush, not at all how Jaskier had wanted this to go. He was supposed to be suave when he made his approach and then detached and selfless when he made his offer—though he supposed Geralt knew him too well to be fooled by that particular act.

He cleared his throat all the same, and tried to take a breath so his next words wouldn’t come out in a squeak or a plead. It didn’t help as much as he’d hoped; Geralt was less than a foot away, and Jaskier could almost taste him in the air.

“I just wanted to make sure you had everything you…needed.” It was more subtle than he’d ever been but still not very, and Jaskier winced a little when only silence answered him. He would’ve turned away from Geralt’s stare except doing so would’ve put his mouth in close proximity to Geralt’s bare wrist, and that temptation was best avoided.

Then Geralt surprised him by abruptly bending at the elbows, bringing them nearly chest-to-chest.

“I could smell your interest in the woods, Jaskier. Months ago, when you were asking questions.” Geralt’s eyes were hot and bright, so beautiful up close that Jaskier almost missed what he was saying. “Is that what you’re offering?”

“Among other things,” Jaskier answered—the right answer, this time, judging by the way Geralt’s gaze dropped to his mouth and _lingered_.

“Then you should have come up sooner.”

Jaskier’s planned retort was interrupted when Geralt abruptly took a step back, and it was forgotten entirely when he removed his shirt in one smooth motion. The familiar lines of muscle and dense hair were glistening with sweat, his nipples stiff and pink, and when Geralt tossed the shirt aside, it was with a carelessness that belied the tension in his shoulders. Jaskier wanted to ask if he’d been this tense for the entire two hours he was gone, but he knew he’d feel guilty about the answer—Geralt had been _waiting_ for him, as impossible as it seemed, and Jaskier had no intention of sabotaging himself with more conversation.

When Geralt bent to remove his trousers and then tossed them on top of his discarded shirt, Jaskier couldn’t have voiced a single coherent thought if he’d tried. Geralt stood in the center of the room in glorious nudity for the few seconds it took for Jaskier to look his fill, and then he sat on the edge of the bed, leaned back on his hands, and waited.

Jaskier fought the urge to launch himself at Geralt mouth-first, before he remembered that he had no reason to fight it at all. He pushed away from the door and hurried forward to kneel between Geralt’s spread legs, his hands curling behind Geralt’s knees to get a grip on what felt like the safest, least attractive part of him. The effort was doomed to failure; every inch of Geralt was attractive to him, and touching his hot skin was just a reminder that a heat meant more than arousal.

“Can I just…” Jaskier started, but he trailed off to press his mouth to Geralt’s stomach. The muscles twitched underneath his lips while Jaskier kissed a line downwards, enjoying the journey but eager to get his mouth on Geralt’s cock now that he’d seen it in all its glory. It was _sizable_ , stiff and heavy when Jaskier used a hand to shift it off of Geralt’s hairy thigh and into the waiting cavern of his mouth, and the bitter salt taste combined with the smell of _omega_ made him moan. That, in turn, made Geralt’s thighs clench around his shoulders, the scent of him growing deep and heady; if Jaskier had ever been excited before in his life, it was nothing compared to this.

He spent long minutes trying to find out what Geralt liked, and Geralt neither stopped him nor encouraged him outside of the occasional involuntary twitch or gasp. Jaskier was certain he was doing something wrong—heats didn’t usually mean blowjobs, of course he knew that, but he also knew it still felt nice and he’d never had anyone turn down his mouth yet—but when he pulled back to ask, Geralt’s hand shot forward to cup his jaw, his thumb brushing softly against Jaskier’s cheek. It was unexpectedly gentle, and when Jaskier looked up to meet Geralt’s eyes, he understood why; Geralt looked confused but grateful, and he had to be so aroused by now that it was painful, yet he seemed fine with Jaskier taking his time. Letting him explore.

Jaskier might’ve been selfish, but not _that_ selfish. He bent his head back down with purpose, and while he sucked the tip of Geralt’s cock back into his mouth, he moved a hand across Geralt’s thigh and pushed a finger inside his ass. Geralt was hot and slippery inside, so wet that Jaskier’s hand was drenched after a few shallow thrusts of his finger, and that gave him an idea: he pulled his hand back to wrap around Geralt’s shaft, using the wetness to help his grip glide over the soft skin, and then he let his tongue dart out daringly to taste it, licking Geralt’s slick off his own cock. The combined flavor was explosive and the slick eased the way beautifully, making it easy to drop his mouth and sink down until he could swallow around Geralt’s shaft; once he had, he pushed his fingers back inside him, two this time, providing a steady friction to match the swallowing motions of his throat.

The noise Geralt made at that was beautiful, a throaty moan Jaskier had only heard in his dreams, and then Geralt’s hands gripped his shoulders and yanked him up. They toppled the rest of the way onto the bed, chest-to-chest, and they’d barely come to a stop before Geralt was tugging at the lacings of his trousers.

“Fuck me already,” Geralt said, his eyes wild and his legs wrapped insistently around Jaskier’s hips, and it was all Jaskier could do to comply.

The second his cock was free, Jaskier lined up and pushed himself inside Geralt’s waiting hole, thrusting as deep as he could go and feeling like even that wasn’t enough, not when Geralt felt so perfect around him. His hips snapped back and then forward again and again, setting a hard pace that would’ve been frightening if Geralt hadn’t tilted his hips up and encouraged him by digging his fingers into his ass. Jaskier thought he’d have bruises _everywhere_ after this, and the thought only made him brace his hands and try harder, until the wet, sloppy sounds of their fucking were drowned out by Geralt’s gasps and Jaskier’s heavy breathing into the side of his lovely throat.

When Jaskier felt himself start to knot, he slowed down, but only enough to get his hand back on Geralt’s cock. He wanted Geralt to come on his knot more than he wanted air right then, and he mumbled nonsense words to that effect into Geralt’s skin until it happened, Geralt arching his back and clenching down just as Jaskier’s knot swelled full. It made him see stars, and when he was finished coming at least enough that every shift didn’t make him moan, his arms gave out in exhaustion and dropped him onto Geralt’s sticky chest. Jaskier didn’t care that Geralt’s come was no doubt staining his doublet, or at least he didn’t care until he realized that he was still fucking dressed.

“I was going to be better at this,” Jaskier mumbled, embarrassed, but Geralt only laughed softly.

“You’re fine,” he said, the words coming out sounding satisfied. 

Right at that moment, with the both of them tied together and smelling of sex, Jaskier couldn’t think of a higher compliment.  
  


* * *

  
They spent the better part of the next two days having more sex than Jaskier could remember having in his life. While there had been a brief reprieve after his knot had gone down the first time, before they could do much more than make sure all of Jaskier’s belongings were in this room and that they wouldn’t die of thirst or starvation over the next three days and four nights, Geralt’s heat spiked and didn’t recede again for more than an hour at a time. Jaskier tried his best to keep up, his body helped along by the fact that it was _Geralt_ who needed him; when Geralt started making pleading noises in the middle of the night, smelling like he was unsatisfied and in pain, Jaskier was concerned enough that he went into a minor rut to match the pheromones in the air. It was enough for a while, and when it went away, Jaskier still tried; he’d never met anyone as beautiful as Geralt, and the smell of them together gave him strength and stamina he didn’t think he’d have under normal circumstances.

By the third day, despite all this, Jaskier was forced to get creative. No matter how willing the spirit might’ve been, his body would be regretting this for weeks; fortunately, two days of effort meant that the alpha smell was strong enough, on Geralt and in him, that fingering worked as a substitute so long as Jaskier remembered to switch two fingers to four just before Geralt clenched down. It was delightful to watch Geralt come apart on his hands, and his increased range encouraged him to lick and suck all the exposed skin he could reach for hours at a time; Jaskier couldn’t remember being as happy as he was with Geralt laid out under him like a buffet, Geralt saying his name on a sweet sigh as Jaskier bit gently down on one nipple with plans for the other. It was, in short, perfection, and Jaskier was fully prepared to carry the future exhaustion like a badge of pride.

When the fourth day dawned and Jaskier woke up with the realization that Geralt had managed to sleep through the night, he was both relieved and disappointed. This was the final stretch, and Geralt was curled up against his side, a pleasant, heavy weight that made Jaskier want to sink down and never wake up again; it was difficult beyond words to leave the warm bed that smelled like both of them, but Jaskier hadn’t had anything but quick bites of travel rations since he’d walked into this room days ago. It was a more pressing concern than usual, and so he made himself get dressed and stumble downstairs to find some food for the both of them, fully expecting a few more rounds of enthusiastic heat-ebbing sex when he came back.

The innkeeper looked just as sour as before, but Jaskier gave him a sunny smile regardless; his mood was good enough to be shared, even with unpleasant people.

“Are you finished?” the innkeeper asked, and it took Jaskier a minute to realize that, sense of smell or not, he’d probably noticed neither of them emerging during their entire stay; the possible explanations weren’t abundant.

“We should be soon enough,” Jaskier said, for lack of anything else. 

The innkeeper muttered something in response that Jaskier was happy to ignore, and he left to wander the street in search of sustenance. He eventually found a bakery purely by nose, and they luckily turned out to have some spare porridge and salted game they were willing to part with in addition to the fresh bread, though Jaskier didn’t tell them that he was not, in fact, feeding a starving family of five like they thought. The fewer questions asked, the better; he was already trying to figure out if he should start anticipating the rumors, should this become something that happened regularly.

Jaskier dearly wanted this to be something that happened regularly, and he spent the better part of his walk back to the inn trying to figure out how to make that happen. Surely Geralt wouldn’t mind if Jaskier asked while he was still sleepy and sated, and more likely to see the reason of it; the plan had potential and no downsides that Jaskier could see, and so he was still smiling when he pushed the door to their room open.

The smile faded somewhat when he saw Geralt was no longer in bed, but in fact fully dressed and in the process of packing up his meager belongings. The glance he shot Jaskier when he spotted him—disinterested, almost cold, like they weren’t friends and certainly weren’t the sort of friends who ever fucked during a heat—made Jaskier’s smile disappear completely.

“Are we leaving?” Jaskier asked in what he hoped was a mild tone, but Geralt’s shoulders were so tense, _again_ , that he wasn’t sure he succeeded.

“I am,” Geralt said, “but you can stay if you want.”

Well, that was a bad sign.

“Is this because I left to get breakfast?” Jaskier asked, though he couldn’t imagine why that would matter. He set his armful of rations down out of sight anyway, just in case. “Trust me, I would’ve much rather stayed here, but I’m better company when I’m not starving.”

“No—it’s over.”

Jaskier felt like he’d been punched, but whatever mood Geralt was in, it wasn’t so bad that he didn’t notice the effect his words had. It made Geralt stop what he was doing for a moment, at least, and look at him fully; Jaskier was glad for that, even if he felt like his heart was about to be broken.

“My _heat_ is over,” he clarified, which at least allowed Jaskier to breathe again. “I hope you were satisfied.”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” Jaskier asked. Something about this entire conversation felt off in a way he couldn’t explain, and he carefully sat down on the bed, Geralt’s gaze tracking him the entire time. “We can always try again.”

“No, we can’t,” Geralt said. “This won’t happen again.”

“If you hated it that much—”

“I’ve only had three heats in your _life_ , Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted. He sounded frustrated and still—still on heat-edge, Jaskier could smell it, and it made no sense, what he was doing. “It won’t happen again for at least a decade.”

“Oh.” The more Jaskier thought about it, the more the information sounded right—witchers aged more slowly than humans, and Jaskier wasn’t sure how old Geralt was to begin with, nor was he sure exactly what had made him the way he was. Of course Geralt wouldn’t have heats in the regular biannual way omegas usually did; frankly, Jaskier wasn’t sure he’d survive it if he did. “Is that…a problem?”

Geralt looked at him like he couldn’t believe they were having this conversation, but that was his own fault; Jaskier had been prepared to come back and wake Geralt up by eating him out and then feed him his dishonestly acquired breakfast, and this whole mess was Geralt’s doing.

“I’m barely an omega,” Geralt said. “Most of the time people can’t even tell—I don’t smell right.” He sounded like he thought Jaskier was missing the point on purpose.

In truth, things were becoming clearer by the second, but Jaskier didn’t know how Geralt had gotten here, what leap he had made.

“Do you think I only want you when you’re in heat?” Jaskier asked in bewilderment, and the way Geralt immediately stiffened showed that he’d guessed right, for all the good it did. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Not just then,” Geralt corrected, and for the first time, he sounded as tired as Jaskier felt. “You were interested when you thought I was an omega.”

The way he said it—like he wasn’t anymore, like Jaskier’s interest was so obviously fleeting that it would disappear when Geralt simply didn’t smell quite as appetizing—was more than Jaskier could bear.

“I was _interested_ when I thought you were an alpha, and I was interested when I thought you were a beta, and I’d _be_ interested if you were a fucking dragon or a bridge troll, and probably anything else besides,” Jaskier retorted sharply, and then he groaned and flopped backwards, dramatically covering his eyes with one hand. That wasn’t remotely the way he’d wanted to confess, but it was out there now, no changing it. “Geralt, _you’re_ the one who didn’t even want me to kiss you.”

Not once. No matter the positions, no matter how temptingly close their mouths were or how intertwined their scents, Geralt hadn’t let Jaskier kiss him even once. Jaskier had been trying very hard not to think about it, up till now.

“If you’d ever wanted me even once over the years, I wouldn’t have asked twice,” Jaskier added, simply because it was the truth. Geralt appreciated the truth.

The room was filled with an answering silence, interrupted only by a single creak of the floorboards. Jaskier didn’t look up to see what Geralt was doing, which meant he about jumped out of his skin when Geralt was suddenly sitting astride his hips. It wasn’t particularly seductive—Geralt was still clothed and his thighs were intimidating weapons of their own, Jaskier could fully attest to that now—but it had the no doubt intended effect of both keeping Jaskier in place and making him open his eyes and look at him.

What he saw took his breath away, because Geralt was looking at him with tenderness, but that wasn’t all there was. Wonder and hesitation and dozens of other things that Jaskier had never seen before flashed across his face in a way that defied words; it was naked emotion, and while Jaskier had never believed the lie that Geralt was emotionless, he’d certainly never expected something like this.

Jaskier forgot what they’d been arguing about in his hurry to sit up and kiss him, and rational thought only came back once he’d succeeded and Geralt was kissing him back. Jaskier made a joyful, perfectly pathetic sound and tried to hold on as tightly as he could, and—by some miracle—Geralt didn’t seem to mind. 

Their conversation wasn’t finished, far from it, but in that moment, Jaskier knew they’d have time for it later. It was a hopeful thought, but Geralt was currently sucking on his lip and purring in delight; Jaskier thought a little hope was justified.

One kiss became ten became twenty, and when Geralt rolled them to the side and back into the rumpled blankets of a bed that smelled like both of them, Jaskier stopped counting.


End file.
